carry on, child; carry on

emrys m. abstetar «⊙» 18 «⊙» they/them

[sighthe-deactivated20251013]

grant st

i find myself dying in empty parking lots all of the time carbon monoxide dressed up as the right lies and a kiss from a stranger who could have been home but instead is a house built up from my love and my blood and something else that i can’t quite think of and sometimes i think i won’t ever have enough but at least i have something when i’m hurt could you hold me while i come undone? we could go stand at the edge just for fun and then dying in empty parking lots won’t compare to dying next to you, forever with you, in the air

[bloodybuttercups]

there is something to be said for the disconnect between myself and the graven images of my childhood. 

we were told to not create or worship statues in place of what they represent; and yet that was what i saw growing up. surrounded by the crucifix above my family’s doorway and around my grandmother’s neck. on the fir tree we decorated each year and in the halls of our church.

now i am here with a star and a word, still with the cross above the back door, because i respect my mother’s desire to keep her faith. but i knead dough and light candles and it feels like love. it feels like home. i am here praying in my room, thinking of my Father and of my community.

there is something to be said for the connection between myself and the shield and life i have found.

[bloodybuttercups]

january 21st, 2020.

and as he lay there,

chest like a barrel and arms like cigarettes,

he reached for me.

his palms were soft and ever so slightly cool,

trembling,

but i held them in my own,

hot and clammy, but steady.

i kissed his head,

and told him my love.

my forgiveness.

my plans to see him again someday.

and i didn’t want to let go, not really,

save for the crying boy behind me,

and his wife and daughter in silent tears.

and perhaps i’ll be remembered the same, with the last words passed between us;

“i’m gonna miss you, y’old fart.”

[bloodybuttercups]

january 22nd, 2020

and one of us was there,

water and balm on his lips.

and one of us was walking home,

anxiety, a rush of relief.

and one of us was in the kitchen,

a thought, a pang, a distraction.

and he was listening,

a change in breath, a final exhalation.

[bloodybuttercups]

january 21st, 2020.

and as he lay there,

chest like a barrel and arms like cigarettes,

he reached for me.

his palms were soft and ever so slightly cool,

trembling,

but i held them in my own,

hot and clammy, but steady.

i kissed his head,

and told him my love.

my forgiveness.

my plans to see him again someday.

and i didn’t want to let go, not really,

save for the crying boy behind me,

and his wife and daughter in silent tears.

and perhaps i’ll be remembered the same, with the last words passed between us;

“i’m gonna miss you, y’old fart.”

[bloodybuttercups]

last time that i saw you was on the bank of the river, clay and sand under your nails, the cool water washing over your feet while you tangled your hands in my hair. you were younger and freer and there were freckles across your nose and your eyes were closed, like you were dead to the world, and it was dead to you. your jeans were wet and cold and you must have sat there for hours, days, weeks. months passed us by and you only awoke to gaze up at the stars. ‘do you think we’ll see each other again?’ you didn’t answer; just shut your eyes and sighed, and your breath billowed up into the sky and became part of the clouds that blocked out the moon.

[bloodybuttercups]

the emptiness is

vast

unyielding

and dark.

(but it might be bright.)

i lose control

and my heart

breaks

inside my chest.

it falls apart

and falls away

into your hands.

drop me;

i dare you.

let me shatter.

you do.

but then,

you put the pieces all back.

[bloodybuttercups]

he’s wine-dark; cloves and aspen and smoke, curling against the slate blue above. curls that bounce and halo his face, and a smile that glows like sun in the sky. golden and copper and darkest brown.

six points; his mouth, his hands, his hips. the space between his shoulderblades. his heart and the dip of where his neck meets his jaw. blotches of red and yellow and blue, given as gifts, from one soul to another.

man shall not- what? shall not love? shall not see the way his eyes alight with all the stars in the night, the way they dance with the fires of love? shall not take those honey-sweet lips with my own and bring his brown sugar flavor into myself? the seeds of him are as sweet as the seeds of the fruit.

[bloodybuttercups]

he is running until your lungs burn in your chest. wind-whipped hair framing his face; a halo. he is golden light and black branches against stark skies. he is honey-sweet and fire, the iron in your blood that keeps you steady and strong. 

he falls apart in your hands, a drop of chocolate melting seemingly to spite the sharp cold of the air. he is hard ice and soft snow. he is frostbite. he is lost and found, forgotten and discovered. 

he is the bitter taste in the back of your throat from too much fresh syrup poured directly into your mouth, head back, chin up, neck exposed, exposed. and yet you gulp him down like he is the clean water and you are the man dying of thirst. and he is dribbling from the corners of your wicked, crooked grin.

[bloodybuttercups]

interworld (neil gaiman & michael reaves) //authors' note

[bloodybuttercups]

a new bookstore just opened by my house

[bloodybuttercups]

fearless child, golden girl,

chocolate eyes and sweet summer breeze,

all laughter and smiles and your mother’s stern love.

faint memories,

ghosts of what the three of you used to be,

shadows of a man you think you might have known.

—

pigtails and pink dresses and prayers;

saint anthony, bring him back to me.

    (child, he’s sleeping in a shallow grave.)

—

the melody is sweet and feels like love, like home.

it should be slower than it is,

but still it calls you,

and you take the detour,

hoping to hear his voice.

—

your mother doesn’t understand;

you’re still your father’s daughter.

you open the windows at night,

music floats in, lifting you, holding you,

and you dance,

bare feet against hardwood,

until the glass sky shakes and shatters beneath you

and she locks the shutters tight.

—

fearless child, rebel girl.

stubbornness and passion,

all hidden photos and letters and sheet music.

faint memories.

sneaking out to the plaza, overflowing,

hope spilling onto cobbled streets.

—

braids and blue skies and benediction;

saint joseph, i’ll not forsake him as he did to us.

    (child, he never wanted to leave.)

[bloodybuttercups]

"good lord; i know i don't know what cherry wine tastes like,

but i don't think it'll ever get me as drunk as you."

— you've never even graced my lips. (e.m.a.)

[bloodybuttercups]

my heart

aches

as i ensure

that i won't see you again.

i only wish

you'd said

something.

- i never got a chance to say goodbye.

[bloodybuttercups]

do not stand at my grave and weep,

i am not there; i do not sleep.

i wander 'tween the headstones dim,

sing to myself an ancient hymn.

leave my home; my family, friends.

i know that they will meet their ends.

i do not wish to see them go.

i leave in gentle, dusting snow.

i swore to advise, protect, secure;

to hold the innocent and pure.

the forests' secrets now are mine,

as i leave everything behind.

the woods are lovely; dark and deep,

but i have promises to keep.

do not stand at my grave and weep;

i've miles to go before i sleep.

through teeth of wolf and heart of bear,

with wings of crows and feet of hare.

do not stand at my grave and cry;

i am not there.

i will not die.

[bloodybuttercups]

your other vocation (elton trueblood) // page 99

[bloodybuttercups]

gift from the sea (anne morrow lindbergh) // table of contents + other works

[bloodybuttercups]

gift from the sea (anne morrow lindbergh) // page 42